


Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by AuralQueer



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Sleep Deprivation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuralQueer/pseuds/AuralQueer
Summary: Inspired by  @suspiciouslibrary's post on tumblrWhen Jon sleeps, he hurts people. So the solution is simple, right? He just has to stay awake.Set in the vicinity of s4, so be warned for spoilers if you're not caught up.





	Miles to Go Before I Sleep

“Sleep deprivation is a form of torture, you know.” Peter Lukas’ easy, amiable voice is familiar, despite the fact that Jon’s only heard it once before on a tape recorder. It’s enough to make him jump, dropping the box of pills he’d been trying to put back into his desk drawer. He swears, and leans down to pick them up, ignoring the way every muscle in his body aches as he moves.

 

From under the desk, he replies. “What are you doing here, Peter?”

 

Peter’s shoes make a very soft sound on the carpet as he walks closer, just folding leather and the rustle of fabric. “On first name terms are we, Archivist? Who made that decision?”

 

Jon wraps his fingers around the plastic coated box and sits up, staring up into Peter Lukas’s eyes. They are the grey blue of an empty ocean, and he refuses to be intimidated by them. “Would you prefer Mr Lukas?”

 

Peter snorts. “Mr Lukas is my father.” He perches on Jon’s desk, folding the black wool coat he’s wearing as he does so. Jon wonders whether he actually just arrived, or if he’s just using it as a costume. When he tries to know, he’s met with nothing but a blur of static that stings like steel wool against the surface of his brain. Jon flinches, and Peter cocks his head to the side. “Best not, Archivist.”

 

Jon doesn’t ask how he knows. He can put that much together without unwanted eldritch knowledge. He sits back, trying not to make it too obvious that he’s leaning away, and Peter doesn’t lean forward. The office is very, very quiet. Jon breaks the silence when he notices how comfortable Peter looks in it. “What do you want?”

 

Peter gives him a friendly smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not about what I want, Archivist. This is about what you want.” Peter leans back, like a friendly, distant uncle, and raps his knuckles on the desk. “Come on, out with it. What’s wrong?”

 

Jon is not a violent man, but in that moment, as Peter Lukas stares at him like he’s some errant child complaining about a birthday party, he finds himself almost overwhelmed by the urge to punch him. Instead, he very carefully curls his hand on his thigh and tries to ignore the way the muscles in his arm are jumping. “You mean beyond the usual? The fact that I’m trapped? That I and the few people left that I care about are constantly staring in the face of not just death, but horrible, torturous endings which we have no choice but to face because we are trapped here by the awful, endless creature that calls this place its domain? Apart from the fact that there is nothing I can do to keep them safe and that I have no idea if they will need to be protected from me, and I have no idea how to stop myself if they do?  Apart from the fact that you have apparently requisitioned Martin Blackwood as if he were little more than _office stationery_ and you will not let me see him?”

 

Jon is very aware that he’s raising his voice and he really doesn’t care. He can feel power pulling at him like it’s drawing blood through a wound, and he doesn’t make an effort to stop it. The compulsion distorts and dilutes in the haze around Peter Lukas, but it’s something and Jon needs it to be something.

 

As it is, Peter raises an eyebrow. “Are you done?” Jon clenches his jaw so hard his teeth squeak against each other. Peter continues. “Apart from that, Archivist, obviously. I can do very little about your little ‘existential crisis’, and despite what you may suspect, Martin is with me of his own free will. He can leave whenever he chooses. It’s up to you to reflect on why he hasn’t chosen to do so already.” Jon opens his mouth - he’s not sure what he’ll say, whether he plans to contradict or question or deny, but Peter holds up a calloused hand. “And that’s still not the point. Why haven’t you been sleeping?”

 

“It’s none of your business.” Jon doesn’t care if it’s petty, he’s fairly certain that he doesn’t give a damn what Peter Lukas thinks of him one way or another. And at least acting like a petulant child makes him feel a little better about being treated like one.

 

Peter clicks his tongue and reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. For one gut-wrenching moment Jon feels every muscle in his body go rigid, as he waits for a gun to inevitably find its way into Peter’s hand. As he waits for yet another barrel to be pointed at his head. As he decides that he won’t run, if it is.

 

But Peter’s hand comes back with a cigar case, from which he withdraws one thick, brown stick of tobacco whilst his other hand draws a box of matches from his pocket. He puts the cigar between his teeth and strikes a match, turning to Jon only when the flame is lit. “Mind if I smoke?”

 

“I doubt I can stop you.” Jon answers. Peter grins then, eyes glittering with some private joke as a map of laugh lines fold and spread across his weather beaten skin. It’s not terribly fair, Jon thinks; that something like Peter Lukas has had so many reasons to smile.

 

“Elias hates it when I do this.” Peter says, conversationally, as the thick acrid smell of the cigar fills the room in a grey haze.

 

“Does he.” Jon’s voice is flat. He’s not interested in rising to whatever stupid game Peter is playing, and he had made a conscious choice almost a year ago that he really didn’t care what Elias felt about anything. Peter shrugs, picking up Jon’s empty mug and tapping some of his ash into it. Jon’s mouth twists.

 

Peter acts as if he hasn’t noticed. “I imagine that you think you’re protecting them somehow.” He exhales, and a thick cloud of grey pours out of his chapped lips. “Do you?” His eyes slide over to Jon. Jon doesn’t meet them.

 

“I have no reason to discuss this with you.”

 

“I mean, I could just start taking people until you decide to behave. My god is a hungry one, Archivist, and people who work in places like this have a hundred reasons to be lonely, even when they don’t know the real reason that things go bump in the night.” Peter delivers the threat like he’s commenting on the weather, and smiles. His teeth are neat and straight and white. Jon concentrates on not breathing in too much of the smoke. Peter sucks on his cigar and speaks around a wreath of fog. “Of course, Martin would be terribly upset. Thinks he’s protecting them.” Peter speaks about Martin as if he’s a beloved but stupid pet. Jon’s stomach turns, and he opens his mouth. Peter ignores him. “Not to mention that Elias will send me more passive aggressive hyperlinks to articles about the importance of Human Resources in a successful organisation.”

 

Jon frowns. “Sorry, he’ll what?”

 

Peter goes on as if he hasn’t spoken. “So? Are you going to be a good little Archivist or do I have to get all monstrous on you?” It’s ridiculous. There’s a man in Jon’s office, sitting on his desk, smoking a cigar and wearing a heavy black wool coat. He looks like he just walked out of an advert for Fisherman’s Friend.

 

And yet when he asks the question, Jon can feel a deep, biting cold sink into his bones. He is suddenly very aware that no-one is coming for him. Not even if he screams.

 

The tape recorder starts to hiss.

 

Jon swallows, and meets Peter Lukas’ eyes. “Alright. I’ll play. What do you actually want?” The question hums across the roof of his mouth.

 

Peter tilts his head to the side. It doesn’t feel like he’s been compelled when he answers. More like Jon is being humoured. “I want to know why you’re not sleeping, Archivist.”

 

“Why do you care?” Jon snaps, irritated and already exhausted. He can feel a migraine building at the back of his skull. Peter hasn’t done anything, but the pressure of being in the same room as him, of being asked to Know and being blinded, is like holding up a building.

 

“Oh I really don’t.” Peter says, picking up Jon’s mug to tap a little more ash into it.

 

(Martin had given him that mug, when they’d first come down here. It has a cartoon ginger tabby cat on it and Jon had thought at first he was being mocked. But Martin had just smiled at him, sweet and guileless, and said it was his now. And it had been.

 

The green one with the sloth that Sasha had stayed dusty at the back of cupboard. Tim’s, with a blue star and ‘You’ve Got This!’ was still upturned on the draining board. Jon hadn’t had the stomach to move it, and the others hadn’t asked.)

 

Jon pulls his eyes away from the mug, and Peter gives him a smirk. Jon wonders whether he’d done that to him, pulled those memories up into his head. Or maybe it was just a more ordinary sort of bullying, and Peter could see the effect it was having. Jon tries to school his features into impassivity, and knows it’s a futile exercise anyway.

 

“No, Archivist, I don’t give a damn about you. But Elias needs you hale and hearty, I’m on babysitting duty, and, well, you’re just human enough to need those forty winks. So how about you stop this little tantrum, go home early, and get an early night? Hm?” Peter leans forward and claps Jon’s shoulder, and Jon feels the impact of his hand rattle through his body, shaking his teeth in his skull.

 

He purses his lips. “And if I say no?”

 

Peter sighs. He doesn’t let go of Jon’s shoulder. He is both taller and stronger than Jon is, and Jon isn’t sure the weird strength he has as the Archivist will do much to help him against another avatar. “Well. Then I suppose I’ll have to ask Elias what he wants me to do with you.” Cold sinks through Peter’s fingers, slicing through Jon’s vest and jumper like they’re nothing and sinking into his muscles with an aching burn as it creeps towards his bones. “But I’d really rather it didn’t come to that. Ok?”

 

Jon nods, once. Then he looks at Peter, and he doesn’t try to pull away. “I’ll sleep. But I won’t promise to dream.”

 

Irritation flickers across Peter’s face, almost too quick to catch. Then he stubs out his cigar in Jon’s mug and gets to his feet, clapping his hands. “Excellent. Ciao, Archivist. Be seeing you.”

 

Peter is still laughing as he disappears into a sudden and impossible fog. Jon stares at the doorway he’d passed through and waits for the white tendrils of cloud to fade and disappear. Then he leans forward, hissing as he rubs his shoulder. Frost is stiff on the wool of his vest.

 

The pain in the back of Jon’s head is impossible to ignore now, and he yanks clumsily at his desk drawer, grabbing a packet of pills at random and fumbling a handful into his palm, swallowing them dry. He lets his eyes slip shut; and they feel too heavy, and his temples ache as if some creature is driving a metal spike through them and twisting. Jon’s face and head are hot, and the rest of his body is numb with cold.

 

He scrubs his cheeks, and then runs his fingers up through his hair, pulling at it a little too hard in a vain attempt to stay awake. His eyes sting. Pointlessly, stupidly, Jon looks at the open door to his office. It’s 4 o’clock on a Friday. There was a time when it got to this point in the day, and Sasha and Tim would be walking past his door - joking too loudly about something lewd and totally irrelevant to their work. Tim would pretend to be shocked that Sasha had said whatever it was outside their boss’ office, and Sasha would ignore him in favour of inviting Jon for drinks with them. Tim would pretend to gag, until Sasha elbowed him and Tim, laughing, admitted that Jon was welcome. Martin would walk past, bag already over his shoulder, and politely decline - making some embarrassed mention of his mother.

 

Jon would decline too, looking hungrily at the pile of statements on his desk, desperately wondering if he would be able to reach the bottom of the mystery in his hands before it consumed him.

 

Now, Jon blinks, and Tim, tall and bright and laughing, disappears like a mirage. Sasha contorts, twisting from a soft, beautiful woman with dark skin to another - pale and hard and a little cruel in the set of her mouth. Martin is just gone.

 

Jon’s mouth pulls back in what isn’t a smile, and he ducks his head, rubbing his hands up and down his cheeks and ignoring the tears that stick to his hands when he does so. Instead, he gets out his phone. He sets an alarm for 90 minutes, hesitates, and scrolls it down to 60.

 

Then he pushes the papers on his desk aside, and leans forward. He shuts his eyes, and rests his head on his arms, and ignores the way his body hurts. Jonathan Sims tries very hard not to think of anything at all.

 

He does not succeed.

 

* * *

 

 

“- Jon? You’ll do your neck in, sleeping like that.” Jon is woken by Daisy. Her hands are gently shaking his shoulders, and he thinks there was a time when this situation: Daisy Tonner standing over him whilst he was unconscious and helpless - was the stuff of his nightmares. He’s not sure if he can really process how much has changed since then. He’s not sure he ever will.

 

Instead Jon blinks, blearily, and tries to sit up. He feels weak, and his head is still hurting, though it has at least faded to a dull rumble at the back of his skull. His eyes itch; and his mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Jon squints at his alarm. There are 10 minutes left on it. So he’s had 50 minutes of sleep. That’s. That’s good. Despite himself, Jon yawns, and Daisy chuckles - low and kind.

 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” She pulls gently at his shoulders. This time, Jon resists, and Daisy huffs but lets him go. “What is it?”

 

Jon shakes his head, trying to collect his thoughts from where they’ve fallen and scattered around his head. “Thank you, Daisy, but it’s fine. I’ve slept too much as it is.” He gives her half a smile and hopes she buys it. He does mean it. Any sleep is too much, for a thing like him, that hunts the dreams of its victims.

 

Daisy’s thick black eyebrows pull down with her mouth as she frowns. “When was the last time you slept?”

 

Jon coughs a laugh and gestures at his desk. “Just now?”

 

Daisy’s expression darkens. “When’s the last time that you slept properly?” Her nose wrinkles. “And why does it smell like tobacco in here?” Jon goes to answer her, but the question has already caught the Hunter in her, apparently, because Daisy steps forward, scanning the office with a gaze far sharper than before. After a few seconds, she notices the mug. She picks it up, then looks at Jon. “Since when do you smoke cigars?”

 

Jon shrugs, and tries not to be too guilty about his his relief at the distraction. “I don’t. Peter Lukas does.”

 

Immediately, Daisy stands a little taller. Her feet spread, and her weight drops, and none of it is anything Jon would have noticed before his god made him more observant. “He was here?”

 

Jon nods, and folds his arms across his chest to try and hide the way his hands are shaking. “Hence the supernatural aircon.” His shivers have, he suspects, little to do with the cold. But he hasn’t actually explicitly lied. He’s just letting Daisy reach her own conclusions.

 

Daisy’s jaw tenses, and she lifts the mug. “Can I keep this?”

 

Jon hesitates (Martin, smiling, “It’s not a proper office till you’ve claimed a mug, you know”).

 

He shakes his head, tucks his hands into the warmth of his armpits, squeezing hard to try and keep them still. “I - yes. Why? Planning to show it to a police dog?”

 

Daisy’s pale lips pull up in the direction of half a grin, and her cheek dimples. “Something like that.” She steps back, walking quickly to the door of his office before stopping in the threshold and turning back. “Do sleep though, Jon. You look like you need it.”

 

Jon offers her a tired smile. “I usually do.”

 

Daisy smiles again. “Not that I don’t believe it -,” her smile falls, “but do, yeah? We need you in one piece if we’re going to survive this.”

 

Jon doesn’t say that he stopped believing they were going to survive this in a circus, right before an explosion threw him into unconsciousness and his last waking thought was that Tim Stoker was dead. He doesn’t say that he wishes he hadn’t survived this long. Instead he nods, and says softly, “I understand, Daisy.”

 

He does understand. He just doesn’t agree.

 

* * *

 

Jon gets back from the bathroom to find a new mug on his desk, and his office smelling like lemon and chemicals. There’s a steel bottle of air freshener on his desk, cheerful and yellow and boasting a bad stock photo of a lemon grove.  Next to it is a mug.

 

On the mug is a photo of a kitten hanging on a tree branch. The kitten is white and grey. It looks more determined than distressed. Across the photo in curling white text is the phrase, ‘Hang in There!’

 

On the mug is a yellow post it note. Jon has spent long enough trying to decrypt this particular scrawl that he’d recognise it anywhere, even without the context clues. Martin’s message is short and unsigned:

 

“ _Peter told me. Please sleep? ~~We - I need.~~ Your health matters. Not just to the Institute. Don’t give up.”_

 

Jon wonders what Martin wanted to say. He doesn’t try to wonder too hard. Instead he carefully folds the post it note and slips it into his pocket. He can half imagine he can still feel the weight of it when he withdraws his hand, and pulls the first sheet of paper from the stack on the right hand side of his desk.

 

“Statement of Marissa Harrington, regarding her time aboard the HMS Sophia. Statement taken 12 December 1968. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.”

 

The statement rises up, filling the room with wind and salt spray and fog. Jon lets it carry him away.

 

* * *

 

Jon really, truly thought that he was never going to see Georgie Barker again. So when she storms into his office, all red hair and dungarees and pink with anger, he’s more than a little startled. He blinks at her, once and then several times, waiting for her to disappear like the other ghosts that have been haunting his waking hours ever since he stopped dreaming. Ever since he stopped hurting people.

 

Georgie doesn’t disappear.

 

“Why aren’t you in my dreams?” Georgie is not, apparently, interested in offering either a greeting or an explanation. Jon stares at her, and tries to ignore the constant presence of pain in his head.

 

“I - Georgie?”

 

“Who else would it be Jon? The ghost of Christmas yet to come?” Georgie snaps, but her brown eyes are wet, and her mouth is pinched the way it gets when she’s trying to keep something down. Jon goes to stand, hesitates, and does so again, slowly. His knees threaten to buckle, and he ignores them, trying not to make it too obvious how heavily he’s leaning on his desk. An empty packet of Pro Plus sits on top of another three in the waste paper basket. Georgie watches him, and she looks wary, and Jon hates that he’s the cause of it. “What’s wrong with you?”

 

Jon waves her off. “No more than the usual.” He gets around the desk, and thinks bitterly that an octogenarian could have done so with less fanfare. Given Gertrude’s various exploits, he’s quite certain of the fact.

 

“Jon?” Georgie’s voice is too loud and too close, and Jon looks down and jumps when he realises how close she is. Her eyebrows flicker upwards, and her mouth turns down a little as she takes a step back, pulling one arm across her body. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

Jon laughs, bitter and exhausted. “You don’t scare me.” He looks at her: really looks. She looks good - the bags under her eyes are less obvious than they were the last time he saw her. Her cheeks are full and flushed, and her brown-gold eyes are bright. If he’d needed any confirmation that he was doing the right thing, this is it. The relief hits him like a wave, and he slumps a little back against his desk. Georgie steps forward, apparently on instinct, raising one hand to catch him before she drops it, hesitating for a second before slipping it into the pocket of her dungarees.

 

“What’s going on?” It’s the tone Georgie uses when she’s not interested in disagreement. Jon swallows, and shrugs.

 

“The usual. Eldritch monsters. Life and death. The end of the world, probably.”

 

Georgie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, apart from that. Why aren’t you in my dreams any more?”

 

Jon glances over her shoulder, at the empty corridors of the institute, and wonders a little desperately whether Daisy or Melanie are around. “I found a solution.” He doesn’t meet Georgie’s eyes.

 

This time, Georgie crosses her arms. “What kind of solution?”

 

Jon huffs, and tries to push more of his weight onto the desk, because his legs are wobbling and Georgie hasn’t noticed yet, but she’ll ask about it if she does. “Does it matter?”

 

“Since you’re avoiding the question, yes.” Georgie steps forward, into his personal space. Jon doesn’t flinch. No amount of scarecrows and handguns could make him unlearn trusting Georgie Barker. She smells like the Admiral and vanilla and cheap coffee. “Tell me the truth, Jon.”

 

Jon looks at her, and even in the dim light of his windowless office her eyes are copper and gold. He looks away, at the pile of statements on his desk, and steels himself. “I found a way to stop appearing in your dreams. Honestly, I thought you’d be relieved.” Or grateful, though he supposes now that was vain of him.

 

Georgie looks like he’s slapped her. “Grateful? Jon, I thought you were dead.”

 

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Jon hasn’t entirely planned to say it, but he doesn’t take the words back. Georgie stares at him for a moment, lips parted. Then she steps back. She’s shaking her head, but Jon notices the tears running down her freckled cheeks because he notices everything. Even when he doesn’t want to. Even when he’d give anything not to.

 

“Yes. Jon, obviously, yes.” Georgie steps forward again, and Jon half deliriously thinks that it’s like they’re dancing. Above them the light-bulb hums a tuneless music.

 

“Are you sure? Better dead than a monster.” Jon grins, and it’s mostly just a baring of teeth, because he’s desperate and angry and trapped and he has nowhere left to run. Georgie scowls, and her hands ball into fists at her sides.

 

“You’re not a monster Jon.” She’s raising her voice, now, and Jon’s mind is full of life nearly a decade ago - of shouting matches over nothing and slammed doors and long walks in the middle of the night to shake off the anger.

 

So he snaps.

 

“Really. _Am I human, Georgie?”_

 

“No.” Georgie slaps both hands over her mouth with a quick, high gasp and Jon feels like he’s punched her. He turns around, half sitting and half falling into his chair. He doesn’t look at her.

 

“Just go. I’m fine.” He passes a hand over his face. “You’re my emergency contact. I’m sure you’ll be informed when this place finally kills me. No point in worrying until then.”

 

He hears Georgie stepping closer and he still can’t make himself look at her. Her shadow falls over his desk. She’s much smaller than Peter Lukas, but thinking of Peter just hardens Jon’s resolve. “Jon, I -”

 

Jon looks up at Georgie, and forces himself to smile. “Please just go. I don’t want to hurt you.” He doesn’t add, any more than I already have. But he thinks both of them can hear it in the air. Georgie stares at him, and swallows. There’s the faint shine of tear tracks on her cheeks. Jon pretends not to notice them, and ignores his own urge to wipe them away.

 

“Alright.” Georgie scrubs at her nose with the back of her hand. “Stay safe, Jon. Please.” She lifts her chin, and walks to the door, pausing there. “There are people who love you. I - we - they’d miss you. If you were gone. Human or not.”

 

Then she leaves. Jon lets out a long, deep, shaking breath. Somewhere along the way it breaks into a sob. And then he’s sitting at his desk, weeping, head buried in his hands as he tries desperately to find a world where he won’t feel anything at all.

 

* * *

 

He’s in the kitchen trying desperately to find anything to eat when it happens. One minute, Jon is upright. The next, he’s on the floor and Melanie is shouting. He can’t really make out what she’s saying past the ringing in his head and the screaming of his body. So instead he looks to the right, at where he’d been holding the new mug that Martin had given him. It is somehow intact.

 

Jon relaxes. He’d never noticed how comfortable the floor of the Archives’ kitchenette was. The fluorescent lights burn white into his eyes and he doesn’t really care. He doubts he can be blinded any more. Instead he blinks slowly up at them, and waits for his brain to turn Melanie’s voice into coherent language. It takes longer than it should.

 

“Jon? Can you hear me? Blink twice for yes...Fuck.”

 

Jon lifts himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the way his arms give out on the first try. “Yes, Melanie, I’m fine.”

 

Melanie scowls at him. “Bullshit.” She hesitates. “Can you, stand?” The anger hasn’t left her expression, but it’s tempered by confusion. Jon sympathises. He wouldn’t know how to handle this situation either.

 

Jon nods. “I think so.” He ignores the way his head is swimming and his words slur. He gets about halfway to standing before he starts to topple, and Melanie yelps, catching him.

 

“Jesus Christ. Are you high?” Her arms are stronger than Jon had expected, and he can’t stop himself from leaning on her a little as he tries to straighten.

 

“I wish.” He’s still slurring, and he frowns, trying to shape the words. “I...wish.” Melanie huffs, and pulls one of his arms over her shoulders.

 

“Yeah, right. Come on, let’s get you to bed. I’ll just add this to the list of things I didn’t sign up to: babysitting a thirty year old through his midlife crisis.” It takes Jon a minute to process past the muttering to the core of what Melanie has said, and when he does he rears back like she’s burned him.

 

“No! No. Sleep. No.” He winces, the movement having burned a lance of pain straight through the back of his skull and into his temples. Melanie stops.

 

“What?” She sounds past the edge of her patience, but then she usually does. Jon swallows and tries to gather his thoughts. They writhe in his head.

 

“It’s...dangerous.” He gestures upwards. “The Beholding. I can’t sleep.” He starts to fall and let’s Melanie catch him, looking into her dark brown eyes, trying to convey what he needs her to understand. “Don’t let me sleep.”

 

Melanie chews her bottom lip. “Ok. Fine. But I can’t let you stay here either.”

 

Jon nods. He doesn’t have the energy to fight her any further. Melanie sighs, and pulls his arm back around her shoulder, and starts walking him out of the kitchen and down the corridor towards artefact storage.

 

“When’s the last time you ate? You weigh less than Helen.”

 

* * *

 

Jon comes to in a cot, and feels panic hit him like a bucket of ice water. He sits up, and tries to ignores the way his body screams. As it is, a choked grunt of pain escapes him anyway. Helen steps back, pupils pulled into spirals in her irises like ink in water. Jon refuses to be disconcerted. “How long was I out?”

 

“Just a few hours, Archivist. Don’t worry, time is an illusion.” Helen smiles, and her teeth are jagged and uneven. The sight of it sends a nauseous pain rolling through Jon’s skull, and he gags. Helen reaches out with her razor thin too long fingers and gently pats his head. “You should go back to sleep. You made yourself very sick. Melanie was quite angry.” Helen presses one stretched finger to her lips, as if she’s sharing a secret. “I think she was worried about you.”

 

Jon can’t siphon through the meandering alleys of Helen’s stream of thought in his current state, so he doesn’t bother. “I don’t want to sleep.” He tries to get up out of the cot, and all of his skin feels bruised. Heat ripples through his body like a fever, and his head pulses. Jon clutches at his temples, ignoring Helen’s gaze on him.

 

Helen cocks her head to the side at an angle far too great for a human, her red hair spilling over like blood over the black blazer she still insists on wearing. “Why are you afraid of dreaming, Archivist?”

 

Jon stares between his fingers at the dark grey concrete just beneath his hanging feet. “Who says it’s the dreams that scare me?”

 

Helen tilts her head to the other side, and Jon waits for the sound of her neck cracking. It doesn’t come. The tunnels are dark and cool and quiet. “What scares you then?”

 

Jon looks up at the thing that stole the body of Helen Richardson. “Do you remember her? The person you used to be?”

 

If he didn’t know better, Jon would say Helen looked annoyed. But he does know better, so he dismisses the tight line of her lips and waits for her answer. “We’ve been over this, Archivist. I am not her but I am. She is not me but she is. Your preoccupation with labelling helps no one, least of all yourself.”

 

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. When he shuts his eyes, the world tilts, and he doesn’t know if it’s Helen or another symptom of the exhaustion. “Spare me the sermon.”

 

“As you wish, Archivist. What scares you?” Helen’s voice bounces at odd angles off the tunnel walls. It makes Jon feel dizzier than he already is. He looks up at her. At it.

 

“Do you like it, when you hurt people?”

 

Helen taps three long fingers against her chin in a dissonant rhythm. A parody of deep thought. “I have not hurt people, by your definition, Archivist. Only monsters.” She tilts her head back too far, like a giddy child. “And I don’t like doing that, it’s...tiresome.  But I do like being useful.” She drops her head back down, and her smile is far too wide. “Do I pass?”

 

Jon scowls at her. “You didn’t answer my questions.” Helen’s fingers curl and flex slowly at her sides like weeds in the seabed. “Forget it.” He should leave. He should get up and walk away and go back to work. If he was a good man, he’d leave.

 

Helen stares at him with her twisting eyes. “Are you scared of hurting people in your dreams?”

 

Jon feels anger hit him like a sudden storm, mixed up with the debris of grief and guilt and loss and pain. “I never signed up for this. I never wanted it. I never asked to hurt people. I don’t want to. Why doesn’t that matter? Why hasn’t that ever mattered?” Jon’s voice echoes more normally down the tunnel, and it still sounds too loud in the quiet space.

 

Helen rocks up onto the balls of her feet. “It matters, Archivist. It mattered to me - or her - or Helen Richardson. It’s why I haven’t tried to kill you.” A corner of Helen’s mouth that stretches too long and pulls up too high curls through her cheek. “It is easier to hate your kind. Though I think mine likes the surprise of me liking you.” She stares up at the low ceiling and dances in a little circle. Jon stares at her.

 

“You’re lying, Es Mentiras.”

 

Helen’s mouth pulls down as she pouts. “A good liar tells the truth sometimes, Archivist. You should be able to tell.”

 

Jon supposes she’s right, and he tries. But he can find no lie in her words. Just the dull glow of the truth. He blinks. He decides that his eyes are stinging because of the sleep deprivation. “You remember me?”

 

Helen leans forwards, and her impossible fingers curl around Jon’s hands. It’s like being very gently cradled by barbed wire. “I told you, Archivist. I am her and she is me, and I am not and she is not. And we remember you. Because you were kind.”

 

Jon stares at the thing that used to be a woman called Helen Richardson. Then he blacks out.

 

* * *

 

The third time Jon wakes up, it’s to Martin’s voice reading a statement. His first thought is that someone has left a tape playing, or else his master has seen fit to set one going itself. He keeps his eyes shut, and listens, and tries not to worry too much at the way Martin’s voice is changed by the process as he steps into someone else’s soul for a while.

 

“- I stopped going to the forest after that. Figured it was best. For all of us.” Martin heaves a long, heavy sigh, and Jon waits for the subtle distortion of the tape. He hates that it’s almost comforting at this point.

 

Nothing comes.

 

Martin clears his throat. “Statement ends. I’ve, um, done follow up on this already. Didn’t really need recording, actually. I mean, they all do. But it’s not a priority, Guinevere gave us everything we needed there. And, um, it’s a pretty classic Hunt story. No...ah, bigger picture at work. I just thought. I mean. I know they help you feel better.” There’s silence, and then a rustle of fabric and the creak of a chair being pushed back. “Anyway, I should -”

 

Jon sits up so fast he cricks his neck, swears, and sways backwards. Martin catches him. His jumper is scratchy and his arm is thick and soft and he smells like soap and tea and wool. “W-woah, careful. You’re - well, I’d say you were going to hurt yourself but,” Martin’s face is pinched with annoyance, and Jon’s assuming that’s why he hasn’t yet noticed that they’re essentially embracing.

 

Then Martin looks down at him, and notices the sparse handful of inches between their noses, and goes very pink. Jon notices that Martin has a handful of pale freckles scattered across his cheeks, and feels himself flush too. Both of them pull apart, and Jon pulls himself up into what he hopes is a marginally more dignified position.

 

The blanket on top of him slips down his body, revealing his crumpled shirt. Jon can’t imagine how badly he smells, or what he looks like. It really doesn’t matter, because Martin is here and that’s more important. Jon looks up and into Martin’s eyes, which are grey and blue and green and far lovelier than he remembered, framed by the pale gold of his eyelashes.

 

“What - Martin, hi.” That’s stupid. Jon rubs a hand over his face. “Um. What brings you to the Archives?”

 

Martin stares at him. He’s pulled up a chair next to the cot, and there’s a small pile of statements on the floor next to his feet. A tape recorder is whirring away next to them like a happy cat. “Jon. You were unconscious for two days.”

 

Jon tries to ignore the way his heart sinks. Of course this was temporary. Of course. Martin was just here to check that he was alive, and then he’d go back and tell Peter and then Jon wouldn’t see him again for - well, it didn’t matter, did it? Jon was a monster. He didn’t deserve nice things. And the fact he’d been weak enough to sleep proved it.

 

A frown slips onto Martin’s forehead like a ripple in cream, and he leans forward a little. Jon tells himself he imagines the cold draught that comes with the motion and knows he doesn’t. “Jon, what are you thinking? You’re…” Martin bites the inside of his cheek. “You seem unhappy.” He says. (You’re lonely, he doesn’t say, but both of them know it.)

 

Jon shakes his head, and is almost thrown when it doesn’t hurt to do so. As it is he makes an effort to give Martin a real smile, and pushes off the blanket. “I’m fine, really. Better now. Thank you. I’m sure the statements helped.” He stands, swinging one leg out of the cot, and then the other. Martin hovers as if to help, but doesn’t touch him. Jon stands in his socks a handful of inches shorter than Martin and looks up at him, pulling one hand self consciously through his greasy hair. “Though I’m sure I look a mess.”

 

Martin shakes his head, and the corner of his lips curves into a fond smile. “You look fine, Jon.”

 

Jon can accept fine. He tries very hard not to hear the thought that stands out against the fuzz of loneliness curled around Martin like a second skin. ( _Better than fine. You’re beautiful._ )

 

Jon breaks the silence because it’s better than obsessing over the ethics of occasionally being aware of his colleague’s - friend’s - significant person’s - thoughts. “I should, ah, brush my teeth.”

 

Martin looks a little hurt, and Jon doesn’t know why but he immediately wants to take it back. “Oh. Right. I’ll just -”

 

Jon doesn’t let him finish the sentence. He doubts he’ll forgive himself if he does. “Tea?” The word is a little loud and somehow incongruous in the looming dark of the tunnels. Martin apparently thinks the same, because his mouth jumps in the direction of a grin before he stifles it. Jon persists. “A dear friend bought me a new mug. I’ve been meaning to. Um. Try it.”

 

Martin snorts. “Smooth.”

 

Jon gives him a smile and tries not to be aware of how fragile it is. “Did it work?” He hesitates. “Will you come with me?” He’s not sure he’s just asking about tea.

 

Martin doesn’t answer at first. Jon can feel the cold prickle of static in the air. Martin is barely a foot away from him and it feels like he might as well be on the other side of the planet. Jon stifles the urge to grab him, as if that will keep him there. As if it will stop him fading away, like all the others did.

 

There’s a shift in the air, and Jon blinks, and it’s like Martin’s coming into focus for the first time in months. He can see the way the lights bounce amber off Martin’s golden hair. He can see the soft curve of his shoulders and the little wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth, so faint they’re almost invisible, but still there. Martin takes a deep breath, and he reaches out, palm up.

 

Jon doesn’t think. He takes Martin’s hand. It’s like stepping inside to shelter from a snow-storm, and meeting the heat of a home fire. Jon sways, but his fingers tighten around Martin’s hand. Martin laughs, a little breathless, and blinks rapidly. He squeezes back, and he looks up, and he meets Jon’s eyes. “Ok.”

 

* * *

 

Later that day, Melanie texts him.

 

‘ _Helen says the dreams were delicious. Whatever the fuck that means.’_

 

Jon stares at the message. He and Martin are sitting in a cafe outside the Institute. Martin is drinking a hot chocolate piled high with cream and marshmallows, watching strangers on the street outside. He’s humming, very softly, and out of tune. Jon hasn’t pointed it out yet.

 

Before Jon has a chance to reply, he gets another text.

 

‘ _Also, sleep. Daisy has tranquilisers and I’m not afraid to use them.’_

 

There’s a pause. Jon stares at the grey dots on his screen and tries not to smile, but it’s very difficult when Martin is safe and sitting in front of him, and there’s the taste of cocoa in his mouth and the sound of ordinary people living good lives murmuring in the background all around him. He gets one more text.

 

‘ _Moron.’_

 

Jon snorts, and Martin looks at him, raising an eyebrow before dipping his head to sip his hot chocolate. Jon decides that if he survives the year, he’ll tell him how adorable he looks when he does that. For now, he shows Martin his phone. Martin reads quickly - quicker than Jon, and grins when he gets to the end.

 

“I think that means she likes you again.”

 

Jon slips his phone back into his pocket. “Perhaps.”

 

Martin sets down his mug. “What do you think she means about Helen?”

 

Jon lifts a shoulder. For once, his problems feel very far away. “I imagine that the Distortion stole my dreams from the Beholding.”

 

Martin raises both eyebrows. “Is that...safe?”

 

“I have no idea.” Jon looks outside, up at the wide grey sky that spills between the roofs of the buildings like an endless grey river. He thinks of a dreamless sleep. “I imagine we’ll see in time.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! So I originally posted this to tumblr, but figured I'd started sharing my work here too. This is the first TMA fic I've posted on Ao3! This is a seriously awesome fandom, and I'm excited to be here. Hope you like the fic!
> 
> ps if anyone can help me put a link on this so I can send back to the original tumblr post, please let me know. I am technologically inept.


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